


Paddling the Wine-Dark Sea (An After Hours Remix)

by Muccamukk



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Drunken Confessions, Gen, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Relationship Advice, Swearing, Unsafe Boating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: Even when it comes to affairs of the heart, which no one suspects that a life-long bachelor like Elmo would have, he's an untapped well of indispensable advice.
Relationships: Andrew A. "Ack-Ack" Haldane/Edward "Hillbilly" Jones, Elmo "Gunny" Haney & Edward "Hillbilly" Jones
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix 2020





	Paddling the Wine-Dark Sea (An After Hours Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lovesick (the Paris remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730930) by [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/pseuds/Impala_Chick). 



> Thank you to ThrillingDetectiveTales for reading this over, and for running this delightful fest.
> 
> Title from Homer (poor guy); a lot of the details about Gunny, including his nickname and the boat, are taken from Hell in the Pacific by Jim McEnery.

Anyone in King Company with a lick of sense comes to Elmo Haney for advice. Those without the wits to know that a man hasn't served in two world wars without learning a thing or two, well, they clearly need Elmo's wisdom more than most, so they get advice anyway. Mostly, people learn to ask. It goes down easier that way.

Not that Elmo is nosy, mind, he just can't stand to see a boy do something that's going to land him and his buddies in a world of pain, not when a few words, or curses, from Elmo can learn him up beforehand. What was the point of making all those mistakes, otherwise?

Even when it comes to affairs of the heart, which no one suspects that a life-long bachelor like Elmo would have, he's an untapped well of indispensable advice.

So when that blue-eyed boot in mortars is mooning over his Australian girl, Elmo makes sure he knows how to use a prophylactic kit. Kid seems appreciative. When first platoon's sergeant gets a Dear John letter from his girl, on fucking Gloucester, Elmo finds him enough jungle juice that the only pain he feels is the skin burning off his tongue, and promises to take him whoring when they’re back in Australia. Elmo's found a girl who'll make that kid forget he has a name, let alone who his sweetheart was.

Of course, right after that, some bathtub admiral decides they aren't going back to Australia, but to a God-forsaken strip of sand with no women and less hope. After that, all of Elmo's advice is about how to build a camp out of so much nothing, and how to make a lamp out of sand and diesel fuel without blowing your damn fool self up. Mostly, people listen, and Elmo is proud to help.

The Marine Corps is only as strong as the individual marine, and the individual marine is stronger when his morale isn't in the bottom of a slit trench, getting shit on. Being dry and having light to look at skin mags helps with that.

It's for the good of the company, Elmo tells himself. He keeps telling himself when he runs into that Hillbilly Jones kid all by himself on the beach. Usually by this time in the evening, Jones is wandering around with his guitar like that guy in red tights in Robin Hood, singing with his boys and shooting the shit. Instead, he's sitting in the sand, staring out at the waves like he spotted a big-titted golden-haired honest-to-God mermaid just out past the reef, and then she swam away on him.

Elmo plants his ass in the sand next to Jones and looks him over, leaning in to smell his breath. He doesn't catch a whiff of booze, but he can fix that.

Jones is a cagey one, with more time in the service than any man in the company, outwardly gregarious, immensely popular, but keeps his business to himself. The kid knows his way around a rifle, Springfield and M1, and an MG too, won't let the boys in his platoon pull shit, but isn't an iron tail neither. Most of all, he hasn't let his bars swell his head. Good officers are hard to come by, and Elmo hates to see one in the dumps.

He knows if he asks straight out what has Jones staring morosely at the waves, he'll get told to jump in them, so instead Elmo says, "Want a drink, Lieutenant?"

Jones has to think about it for a moment before nodding. "Reckon I could about use one, Gunny."

"Come with me." Elmo gets up and walks back across the island. Even with a detour past Elmo's tent to pick up a few things, it only takes a few minutes to get over to the deep lagoon cut into the north side of the island. Elmo has a boat hidden there, or not as much hidden as placed with the explicit understanding that Elmo will skin the man who lays a hand on it, and then skin his buddies too. The boys all know that because Elmo said it very loudly, in front of an officer, and they haven't ever heard him lie.

"You wanna go rowing?" Jones asks, but he helps Elmo pull the little dinghy down to the water. Whoever ran the coconut plantation left the thing, probably used it to catch fish around the lagoon. Elmo uses it when he wants to drink alone.

"Rowing, sure." Elmo hands Jones a bottle of whiskey and sets to work affixing a pair of mismatched oars in a pair of mismatched rowlocks. "Was saving this for my birthday," Elmo says, tipping his head towards the whiskey. Jones is holding it up to the sun, shading his face in amber light edged in rainbow. "Now's as good a time as any. Get in."

"Mine today," Jones says, sounding downright sorry for himself, but he gets into the dinghy, long legs taking up half the space.

"Happy birthday!" Elmo shoves off and jumps in as the dinghy's keel leaves the sand. The tiny boat tips wildly, with Elmo standing in the middle of it with his arms out like a man on a high wire, using his hips to balance out the rocking. Jones, for his part, clings grimly to the gunwales and tries not to cause more problems than he solves. Elmo always knew he was a sensible boy. When the boat steadies, Gunny drops to the center thwart and starts to row.

"We going any place?"

"Away from there." Elmo doesn't have to say where. They've only been on that damned island for a few weeks, and already every man there would sell his grandmother to get off.

Elmo stops when they're in the middle of the lagoon, too far from the shore to be heard, and far enough away from the reefs to miss the splash of the breakers. There's an eddy here that keeps the boat more or less centered. Elmo ships the oars, pulls the cork out with his teeth and spits it overboard.

"Drinking the whole bottle, are we," Jones comments.

Elmo takes a swig, smacking his lips at the taste, and holds the bottle out. Jones knocks back a slug like a true seagoing marine. Elmo really has always liked that boy.

He doesn't ask any questions until the bottle has gone back and forth a couple of times, and they're both a little buzzed, then he says, "Your birthday, huh? How old are you, kid?"

"Just turned twenty-six," Jones answers; he's taken to holding the gunwales again, like the dinghy's on rough seas.

"Jesus Fucking Christ. Same as how long I've been in." Elmo raises the bottle and toasts, "Fuck. Here's to that!"

The whiskey's burning along nicely now, and Jones is smiling at Elmo in a spirit of good fellowship. "Twenty-six years," he says before he drinks. He tosses his head as the whiskey goes down, like he's drinking shine, even though Elmo's supplier offers nothing but the good stuff.

It seems like he's far enough gone for Elmo to get to the point, so he asks, "You missing your family, kid?"

Jones starts to shake his head then stops like he thinks it's making the boat rock. Maybe Elmo should've gone slower with the bottle. "Naw," he slurs. "I mean, yeah, but naw, you know, Pops?"

Elmo does, has his whole life, just about. "Then why the hell you looking like you got one of those letters?"

Jones looks at the bottom of the boat, the space between their ankles where a little water sloshes back and forth. "Reckon you'd like to ask the skipper that."

"Ack Ack?" Elmo asks, like they had another skipper. Elmo likes Haldane, too. The boy has a good head on his shoulders, and doesn't talk proud like most Quantico men. That Jones likes him too is plenty clear from the way he always seems to find his way to Haldane's side.

"Andy," Jones corrects, sounding a little dreamy. He stares away past Elmo's shoulder towards the shore, like he can see through the palms right to Haldane's tent. "Did ya know that I kissed him?"

"That would explain the long face," Elmo says, and considers. He hasn't thought of Jones being a fairy, before now, but that just shows that a fellow never can tell. Elmo's known enough sorts of queers over the years to prove that, at least. "Well, if you're looking at a court martial, I'll speak for your character."

"He wouldn't!" Jones half-stands in his urgency and now the dinghy _does_ rock wildly in protest. Elmo has to reach forward and grab Jones by the arm, dragging him back down to the thwart before he dumps them both in the sea. He passes the bottle back to Jones, who takes a pull before letting it drop between his knees. "He wouldn't, would he, Pops?" Jones asks, and he looks every day his age then, blue eyes wide and begging for reassurance.

Elmo wishes he could give it to him, but the truth is that he doesn't know. "What'd the skipper do?"

Jones shakes his head. "I dunno. I got outta there like my tail was on fire, then you found me where I'd landed. Hasn't sent the SPs after me, anyhow."

"Yet," Elmo says darkly. "Fuck." He takes another drink and thinks it over. Haldane isn't the kind of skipper who throws the book at his boys because he can. Elmo has never seen him run queers out of his unit, even though Christ knows they have a few who can hardly keep their flies buttoned on a good day. He isn't a soft touch, at least not bad enough to be taken advantage of, not the kind to want to be friends with the enlisted men, but he doesn't apply the rod unless some fool has it coming. He isn't a man to suspend a sentence just to make it hurt. "I think you're alright," Elmo concludes, but can't keep from adding, "Goddamned lucky son of a bitch. What'd you do a stupid fucking thing like that for?"

Jones, still gamely hanging onto the gunwale with one hand and bottle with the other, lets his head drop and mutters towards the bilge, "It's cuz I love him, see?"

"Fuck." Elmo should've seen that one coming. The way Jones hangs around Haldane, and all, the way he tracks him with his eyes, and his gaze lingers, the way Jones says Haldane's name sometimes, and tells the boys to mind him.

"Thought he loved me too," Jones laments, sounding like he's going to start blubbering. "He kissed me back, or I thought he did, but then he stopped, and..." And Jones ran away.

"Fuck, kid." Elmo sighs. The whiskey's mostly gone by now, but he takes the bottle from Jones' hand and knocks the last of it back in two swallows. The world gets a pleasant blur to it after that, the reds of the sunset bobbing and warping in the water of the lagoon. Elmo reaches out to pat Jones on the shoulder, misses, tries again, and manages to cup his hand around the side of Jones' neck. "Told you you're a goddamn stupid son of a bitch, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Jones agrees. He's still looking up at Elmo, and the light of hope in his eyes makes it all worse. For the first time, Elmo doesn't want to give advice. He can't stand thinking what will happen if he's wrong. He should tell Jones to keep his head down and steer clear of the skipper until he can keep his hands to himself. He should put the fear of God and the United States Marine Corps into the kid, explain what the SPs will do to him if they catch him out.

Problem is in twenty-six years of service, Elmo hasn't always been able to turn down a fine ass or a set of pretty blue eyes. They've been through hell on those islands, with more of the same to come, and maybe it's a risk, but who is he to tell a young man in love that there isn't any hope that he'll ever be happy. Elmo can feel Jones' pulse fluttering under his palm. His skin is slippery with sweat and rough with stubble, and he feels a sudden tenderness towards the boy.

"This is no place for that kind of bullshit," he pronounces, and Jones dips his head, defeated. "You can't fart without half the division smelling it. Even if... _if_ , mind I said that... Ack Ack's..." a half dozen filthy names stall at the tip of his tongue, and for once Elmo finds he can't apply any of them, not to the skipper, "if he's interested, he won't do squat on fucking Pavuvu."

"Yeah," Jones agrees, still glum. Everyone knows they're stuck here until Uncle Sam wants them for more killing. "Smarter than me, I guess."

That's a fucking fact, but Elmo's trying to encourage the kid. "What you need to do, is find some way to get him over there." Elmo points with his chin across the reefs and the narrow strait to the shores of Banika, land of all good things. "A man's gotta shoot from cover, Lieutenant."

Jones looks from Elmo to the island paradise and back again, then nods slowly. "You think so, Pops?"

Elmo doesn't ask what the worst that could happen is, but he just shrugs and throws the bottle overboard. It bobs for a moment on the surface before a ripple catches the neck and it slowly starts to fill and sink. When it's gone, Elmo unships the oars and starts to slowly paddle back to shore.

As they haul the boat back up the beach, Elmo says, "Happy birthday. Do me a favor, kid, and don't ask me for any more advice, huh?"

Jones wobbles on his feet, salutes like he's still a sergeant, and sways off to find his bunk.

Elmo watches him vanish into the dusk, muttering a short, profane prayer to God and the United States Marine Corps to look after fools like them.


End file.
